Swithering

Another day confined to the house trying not to cough too much.

I listened to the rugby on the radio; although it was not sounding at all good for Scotland, I still enjoyed the curious turns of phrase of the commentators. Today I'm sure I heard "He looks just like a wee stock cube on legs." and in last week's version "The play is raging furiously out there - the Irish are roaming the field like a pack of prairie dogs." Prairie dogs?

Apart from Mr H cooking up a delicious meal, not much else to report. The blip records swithering over whether it's time for another ibuprofen or perhaps a Hall's mentholyptus to ring the changes.